


That Damned американец

by AngeNoir



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Arguing, Fighting, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 04:56:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5526167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeNoir/pseuds/AngeNoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That damned Cowboy's propensity for fast-talking was going to get him killed one day. It was almost today, but thankfully Illya had intervened.</p><p>Not, of course, that Napoleon would admit to needing the help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Damned американец

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shayheyred](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shayheyred/gifts).



> американский = google translate tells me this means American/Yankee. Hopefully it actually does bc my knowledge of Russian is nil.
> 
> EDIT, 12/30: however, apparently this (американец) is the better word, so I've now changed it! Thank you so much for correcting me! :D

They always fought. It was honestly just part of their dynamic that Illya had gotten used to. He didn’t question it, in the same way he deliberately didn’t question why he looked at Napoleon’s lips, why he noticed whether Napoleon was hurt, why he knew Napoleon’s favorite brand of cigars and hard liquor and even the way he took his coffee.

It was an unspoken part of his life.

Napoleon, however, was a brash American, a cowboy always shooting his mouth off, someone who worked with subpar methods and machinery and definitely did not value the hard work Illya put into his craft. Flew by the seat of his pants, and what infuriated Illya all the more was that it _worked_ , goddamnit.

Tonight, though, it hadn’t worked, and instead Napoleon got off ( _very lightly_ ) with just a bullet graze on the side of his head instead of the bullet between the eyes their target had been intending. Illya was already on edge, upset because Napoleon was in pain, and so he followed Napoleon back to his hotel room, grumbling all the while about hotshot cowboys who had less sense than their horses.

“You know, old boy, you may want to speak up. Mumbling is terrible manners,” Napoleon drawled, taking off his suit coat and rolling up his shirtsleeves.

“Where is your kit?” Illya asked, determined to ignore Napoleon’s small jabs.

Turning away from the mirror, Napoleon frowned at Illya. “I can take care of this myself. It’s just a small graze. It didn’t even mess up much of my hair.”

“It is a graze on your _head_ ,” Illya pointed out, voice dropping deep into a growl before he caught himself and forced his voice back into a normal tone. “Is no problem for me to do.”

“Perhaps I just don’t want your clumsy hands anywhere near my hair, Peril,” Napoleon murmured.

It was the last straw, the final blow to Illya’s already tattered and fragile nerves. Pushing into Napoleon’s space and body, he snarled, “These clumsy hands saved you when your fancy talk did nothing! What would you do without these hands? You need every bit of help! Your luck is not so good!”

“My luck is just fine, thank you,” Napoleon said cuttingly, shoving back even though he was both shorter and less intimidating than he thought he was. “I was doing just fine. She wouldn’t have actually shot; you startled her, that’s all!”

“ _She was holding gun on you_!” Illya snapped, hands gripping Napoleon’s shoulders, shaking him a little. “Is not _fine_!” His speech dipped into Russian, short and sharp and guttural, only for Napoleon to tilt his head up and meet Illya’s eyes. Immediately, Illya knew whatever Napoleon was going to say next, it was going to be _monumentally_ stupid.

“Why, I bet she wasn’t even a good shot! You’re just bad luck for me, that’s all!” Napoleon sniffed dismissively.

Before he could really question anything, Illya growled, a deep roar that built from his chest. “You _stupid –_ американец!”

Napoleon opened his mouth, probably to argue, and suddenly Illya pulled Napoleon tight, lips slotted over that smirk, shocking Napoleon into opening his eyes wide. There was heat, and fight, too, and then Illya pulled back, chest heaving, trying to keep from blushing too obviously.

Napoleon stood in shock, staring at Illya, shoulders shaking with his breathing.

“You too important to play dangerous games you play,” Illya growled, but there was worry there, too much, he could hear it in his voice and in the shaking of his fingers clenched tight in Napoleon’s dress shirt. “Take better care of yourself, Cowboy.”

“I shall endeavor to do so,” Napoleon said faintly.

They stood there a heartbeat longer, Illya terrified he’d irrevocably damaged the fragile friendship they had started between one another, until Napoleon managed to croak, “I may be quite wrong, but did you just – kiss me?”

“I did,” Illya confirmed, voice quiet.

“Did you mean it?” Napoleon asked.

The question affronted Illya, and he took half a step back, letting go of Napoleon’s shirt. “I never do anything I do not mean—”

But before he could finish his angry words, Napoleon stepped forward with Illya, and suddenly _Napoleon_ was kissing _him_ , and Illya gasped into the kiss, hands going to cradle Napoleon’s elbows, curl around Napoleon’s arms.

“Bed,” Napoleon panted against Illya’s lips. “This would be better in a bed.”

“First good idea you have all day, Cowboy,” Illya grunted.

Turned out Napoleon had a lot of good ideas, and most of them all revolved around sex.

Not that Illya was complaining.


End file.
